​None but the dead can know the worth of love

To love is to die and be born again in another world, to slough the skin of the terrene and be robed in all the supernal glory of the celestial. Love changes as Death, it effaces the past, it brightens the future, beautifies as the hand of some mystic artist, all misery, all sorrow, all woe, overwhelming, illimitable.

Come, love, and kiss my shoulders! Sleepy lies

The tinted bosom whence its fire flies,

The breathing life of thee, and swoons, and sighs,

And dies!

None but the dead can know the worth of love!

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

Come, love, thy lips, curved hollow as the moon’s!

Bring me thy kisses, for the sea-wind tunes,

The song that soars, and reads the starry runes,

And swoons!

None but the dead can tune the lyre of love!

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s